


Karma, Karma

by gloria_scott



Category: Look What You Made Me Do - Taylor Swift (Music Video)
Genre: Background Femslash, Betrayal, Character Death, Enemies Working Together, Gen, Heist, Hell Realm, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Multiple, Supernatural Elements, Taylors Behaving Badly, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 14:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13033200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: Honey, I rose up from the dead. I do it all the time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicafrom3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicafrom3/gifts).



ACT 1: PAST IS PROLOGUE

Once upon a time, in a hell-realm not so very far away, sat four posh young women in a posh penthouse living room on the thirteenth floor of a posh hotel located in an otherwise dingy city.

“Can't we just get on with it?” The woman lounging on the divan examined her perfectly manicured red nails in an offhand manner. The diamonds she wore on her ears, neck, and wrists sparkled in the light coming in from the enormous picture windows.

The one dressed in studded leather from the top of her hat to the tips of her stylish motorcycle boots stopped pacing and stood resolute in the middle of the sitting area.

“No, we need a fifth.”

“But why?” The exasperated question came from the one in the silver snakeskin dress with the large sunglasses propped on her head. She sat sideways in the overstuffed chair, legs crossed and hanging over one of the arms, Starbucks cup in one hand. In the other she held an iPhone; the low drone of voices could just be heard as she replayed past video 'receipts' she'd saved.

“We just do, that's all,” Studs said. “You know that so why are you arguing?”

“Because I'm B.O.R.E.D. bored, that's why. Can't we just go see a movie or something? Preferably one with Chris Hemsworth shirtless?” Receipts waggled her eyebrows under her asymmetrically cropped bangs.

Studs was unmoved by the call to beefcake. “We have a job to do.”

“I hate to agree with Receipts on, well, anything, but what do we need that damn statue for anyway?” Diamond asked.

Studs hesitated, brow furrowed. “It's worth something.”

“Diamond is worth something,” Receipts countered. “We have enough money to buy whatever we want. Let's just go.”

“I have money, you mean,” Diamond said, earning herself a petulantly raised middle-finger in response.

“Okay stupid, try it,” Studs challenged.

Receipts blinked a few times. “What?”

“Try and leave. We'll wait.”

Receipts set her coffee cup down on an ultra-modern glass side table, swung her legs around and stood up. She walked briskly past Studs towards the door. However, as she drew closer to it her steps faltered and she stopped, looking slightly confused. After a few awkward moments she shook herself out of her stupor and gave a sort of laugh-snort.

“Why would I leave? They have free Showtime here, and Starbucks delivers right to your door. So like, whatever.” She went back to her chair and flopped into it. Her hand shook slightly as she lifted the Starbucks cup to her lips. Diamond saw it and rolled her eyes.

“Oh my god, you're so full of...”

“Shut up!”

Diamond shot Studs a dangerous look but she did shut up. Studs didn't see it; her eyes were glued to the door. Suddenly, she bounded over and flung it open, revealing a woman in a hotel housekeeping uniform crouching in the hall. There was a sharp yelp as she snagged her quarry and yanked her in. Before the woman could steady herself, Studs grabbed her by the throat and pushed her against the wall, lifting her up until her toes barely found purchase on the plush carpet.

The woman was young – late-twenties at most – with mousey brown hair and only a rudimentary knowledge of the art and science of makeup. Her eyes were wide behind dark-rimmed glasses as she clawed in vain at the vice-like grip around her throat.

“Looks like I caught us a little mouse,” said Studs.

“More like a drowned rat,” snorted Receipts. She hit the video icon on her phone and held it up to catch the action.

The last of their quartet finally made her presence known. She sat with perfect posture in a straight-back chair, legs crossed very precisely. Her black leather leotard left plenty of skin showing. The ensemble was complemented by a severe up-do, shiny black cape, and a riding crop across her lap. Until now, she had seemed to take no notice of the others' bickering as she gazed out the windows and languidly stroked the hair of one of two barely-clad nubile women at her feet.

“Let her go,” were the first words she spoke.

Studs dropped the interloper. Mouse stumbled a few steps away from the wall and rubbed her neck, her face crumpled in a hurt expression.

“You guys, that was kind of rude,” she said.

“So is eavesdropping, my dear.” Domina flicked the shiny cape from her shoulders and stood. She strutted towards her, tapping the riding crop in her hand with each step. When they were face-to-face, Domina grabbed her by her sloppy ponytail and pulled, forcing her head back. She stared intently into her eyes.

“Now, repeat after me. You are my world, Mistress. Your wish is my command.”

Without blinking, Mouse echoed her words.

“You are my world, Mistress. Your wish is my command.”

Domina let go of her hair and stepped back with a smug grin.

“She's faking it,” Receipts said from behind her phone's viewfinder. “Looks like your Mistress Mojo ain't working.”

Domina narrowed her eyes. “Are you faking it, my little Mouse?” she crooned.

“Um... yes? I mean... no? Ma'am?” she dithered. “It's just that I'm a little afraid of that riding crop is all.”

“What's your name, Mouse?”

When she didn't answer right away, Studs grabbed her by the nape of the neck and gave her a vicious shake.

“Taylor!” she squeaked.

The other three looked at each other in surprise but Domina just laughed and said, “We've got our fifth.”

“Seriously? This one?” said Diamond, nose wrinkled. “What use could she possibly be?”

Domina cuffed Mouse under the chin a little too hard to be considered playful. “So, darling, tell us. What's your special talent?”

Mouse bit her lip and thought for a moment. “Umm... people don't tend to notice me?”

“I noticed you,” Studs snarled.

“Well, okay, I have a little bit of a cold today and the sniffles gave me away, but in general ya know? I'm very unobtrusive?” Nearly every sentence she uttered had the lilting rise of a question. “I know the hotel, how to get in and out of places without being seen? I know staff shift changes? And I've got one of these,” she held up an employee access fob. “Gets me in most anywhere that needs to be vacuumed.” Her eyes widened and a broad smile crept over her face. “Hey, I could help case the joint!”

“Huh.” After a thoughtful pause, Studs finally let go of her. “Yeah, she'll do”

Diamond stared hard at the newcomer. “I don't like her.”

Mouse's smile faded and she looked as if she might cry at this stranger's rejection.

“You don't have to like her,” replied Studs. “I don't like you, and yet here we are.”

Receipts laughed, still filming the whole exchange. “I love everyone in this bar.”

“Shut up!” the other three shouted in unison.

In the awkward silence that followed, Mouse suddenly brightened again.

“So... do you guys need any extra towels while I'm here?”

***

Dark, dark.

Her eyes were open but the blackness surrounding her was impenetrable. She lifted her hand, felt the slats of rotting wood above her.

_Up, need to get up._

The wood gave way to her scrabbling fingers, sending a cascade of cold and heavy earth onto her face and chest. The dirt filled her mouth and nostrils but it didn't matter. She didn't need to breathe just yet. Six slow feet she rose, one fistful of dirt at a time, driven by a force that was somehow familiar but that she didn't understand. All she knew was that it was time to go now.

First hands, then arms, then head broke through to the surface. Slowly she crawled over ground still wet from recent rain, until finally all of her was free of the grave. She stood up rather ungracefully. All around her were marble angels and obelisks, gleaming white in the moonlight. A light breeze ruffled her soiled dress and long, dirt-caked hair that might once have been blonde.

The monument to her left was tilted at an irritating angle. She righted it with a hand, a thought. Remnants of the perfectionist still clung to her rotting corpse. If only everything could be fixed so easily.

The irresistible force propelling her welled up again and she started to move. Her shuffling feet seemed to know where to go. Had they been this way before? _Many times._ They squelched in the moist, loamy earth as they carried her through the unkempt graveyard to the old cathedral on the hill where the other one was waiting.

She reached the dark steps of the cathedral and looked up. The full moon broke behind bruise-colored clouds, setting the spire of the bell tower into sharp relief. She eyed the climb before her and would have sighed wearily if her lungs hadn't virtually liquefied months ago.

 _You put one foot in front of the other, and soon you'll be walking up the stairs_ , her mind sang its encouragement.

She lowered her head and began the ascent. About a third of the way up she suddenly noticed the state of her feet as they mounted the broad steps: flesh decaying, bones poking through ropey sinews, the toenails that were still intact crusted with dirt.

_Dear lord! When was the last time I had a pedicure?_

She laughed silently at the thought of her reanimated, stinking corpse walking into the salon; or she tried to at least. The skin on her face cracked and the wind kicked up and whistled through the hole. She stopped trying.

At last she reached the top. The arched doors in front of her were easily twenty feet tall and made of heavy oak reinforced with intricately detailed iron door straps. Each bore an iron ring in the shape of a grotesque oroborous for handles. These she grasped and pulled, hoping the strain wouldn't tear an arm off, and entered through the narthex to the nave of the church.

***

Upon a golden throne in the sanctuary of an ancient cathedral sat a woman dressed in red. She sipped chamomile tea from the most delicate bone china while she waited. All around the throne, king cobras coiled and swayed – royal attendants seeing to her every need – while their lesser brethren wriggled here and there across the stone floor on more trivial errands. Her little darlings, all. How they had come to her, how she herself had come to this place, was lost to her. What did it matter, anyway? Better to reign in a snake infested hell realm than serve in... wherever the alternative was.

The doors at the back of the nave creaked open. Serpentine smirked as she watched the thing that entered make its slow and stilted way down the aisle. She'd lost track of which ones were in the graveyard this time. Was it Nightingale? She consulted one of her darlings with a look and it nodded its sleek black head. She'd guessed right. Didn't matter. It would be whoever she needed it to be. Five was the magic number. Five pieces needed to be at play on the board at any given time. She didn't question why.

The thing stopped in front of the steps leading up to the sanctuary and swayed slightly. Still getting its land legs. In its formal dress, contaminated with the stain of filthy things, it looked like some jilted corpse bride left at the altar by its equally rotten groom.

Serpentine primly took a sip of tea before placing the teacup back onto the saucer with a little clink. At her elbow hovered a silver tray balanced upon the flattened head of a cobra. She ignored it and settled back into her throne, crossing her long white legs and smiling.

“Do you remember me, honey?” Her voice echoed in the cavernous cathedral and slithered up the walls to settle in the deep darkness among the arches. The question was just an ice-breaker, a formality and nothing more. She already knew the answer but she asked it anyway. Just in case.

The thing in front of her hesitated, then shook its head slowly. Probably afraid it would fall off. Poor dear, couldn't speak through frayed, decaying vocal cords. Such a pity; it'd had such a lovely voice once upon a time. Perhaps she had waited too long to raise this one.

No, she had wanted her to rot. She wanted all of them to rot.

“Of course you don't. Doesn't matter.” She waved it off and then pointed an elegant finger at her guest. “I remember you, and I know why you're here. Shall I tell you?”

Another hesitation, followed this time by a slow nod.

“I know who put you in the cold, dark ground. I know what they did, how they left you to die, to rot.”

The thing's gray and moldy face held no expression, but Serpentine knew she had its undivided attention. She spun a winding tale of love, betrayal, mayhem and murder; savoring the juicy bits like bittersweet candy melting on her tongue. Maybe she exaggerated a little here and there, maybe she told the whole truth and nothing but. Zombie girl would never know the difference.

Serpentine shoved her tea cup at the waiting snake attendant and leaned forward. Countless times they'd done this dance, but this was always her favorite part.

“I bet you would kill for the chance to pay them all back. Am I right?”

Zombie girl nodded. Serpentine smiled a sharp-toothed smile.

“Honey, have I got a deal for you!”

The thing swayed precariously and for a moment Serpentine considered offering it a seat. She wrinkled her nose. No, none of that zombie juice on the lovely velvet furnishings or mahogany pews. Let it stand.

“I'll tell you who these horrible, awful, very bad people are, where you can find them, how you can... dispose of them. In return, I want you to bring me something. Just a little tchotchke, old and very dear to me. A family heirloom if you will. It was stolen and I want it back. Deal?”

It nodded. Of course it did. They always did. This was the dance. They didn't ask questions, Serpentine didn't need to tell them anything more about it. And around and around they went.

***

Nightingale left the church, armed only with an address. She'd have to make her way to it in her current form. She walked barefoot and lurching through the dark and mostly empty streets, occasionally passing by some drunken couples stumbling out of clubs with their arms around each other or homeless people huddling in doorways. If they caught sight of her in her undead and decaying state, they didn't react at all. She barely noticed them not noticing her, caught up in her own thoughts as she was.

That slithery bitch was wrong about one thing: Nightingale did remember her. Vaguely.

_Serpentine, rhymes with Clementine._

But with every step her bare and rotting feet took, the images of the immediate past came into clearer focus. They matched what Serpentine had told her. For the most part. Either there were still gaps in her memory or Serpentine had lied. If she were the gambling type she'd put her money on the latter.

She got to the building – an old, brick apartment house with a locked outer glass door. She waited. A drunk hipster couple, both sporting annoying hipster beards and coming home from some annoying hipster party, brushed past without really seeing her. One fumbled with his keys until the lock clicked and they entered, laughing their annoying hipster laughs. She followed them in and waited for them to disappear down a hallway lined with flickering lights towards the elevators. She turned to the right, opened the door to the stairwell, and started to climb.

Fifth floor. Second on the left. She knocked on the door and waited.

“Just a minute!” a bright and bubbly voice called from inside. A nerdy young woman appeared in the doorway, her mousey brown hair disheveled, glasses slipping down her nose, hands covered in gray clay despite having hastily tried to wipe it all off on her smock.

Nightingale took a look at her and shrugged. This wasn't the meatiest of roles but it was one she could play.

One moment of surprise, one squeak of fear from nerdy girl and the thing that had been Nightingale sprang. A bony claw of a hand snagged the girl by the throat and shoved her with preternatural strength back into the apartment. The door slammed shut. The hallway lights flickered, buzzed, and went out.


	2. Chapter 2

ACT 2: THE HEIST

Nightingale left the penthouse still rubbing her sore neck. She took the elevator down a floor and pushed her housekeeping cart down the hallway until she came to the first door without a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the handle. She entered the room with an armful of towels and washcloths, closed the door and leaned against it. A big grin spread across her face despite the fact that her heart was still pounding. She was in and that's all that mattered. Even better was Diamond's reaction to her. She had obviously been uncomfortable but probably couldn't pinpoint why. Maybe she sensed she was staring death in the face. Nightingale's grin grew to a smugly satisfied smile.

She busied herself with her “job”. No sense getting fired before the big day. She changed out the towels in the bathroom and got to work stripping down the beds.

Of course, the thing with Domina had been touch and go, she thought as she fluffed some pillows. She'd been conflicted about whether to reveal herself as a Taylor – immune to Domina's controlling influence – or not. They obviously hadn't recognized her as one, but that was understandable. This Taylor with her anti-glam looks was a far cry from the others. She wasn't sure why Receipts was able to see through her act, though. She was a formally trained actress and damn good at it thank you very much. But whatever. She was in and that's what mattered. Her being a Taylor just meant they would trust her less.

In the bathroom wiping down the fixtures, she caught sight of her plain Jane features and perpetually disheveled hair. She was just so nondescript; no wonder the others hadn't noticed her yesterday. She had noticed them, though. It was impossible not to. They walked through the lobby strutting their signature, over-the-top glammed up looks like they were on the catwalk or something. Receipts had been panning her phone cam, probably casing the joint.

Seeing them all again was like a gut punch. No, it was like a bullet wound to the chest.

She'd followed them into an elevator and hid behind a woman with a baby. Domina turned and playfully winked at the child while the mother gave her skimpy outfit the stink eye. None of them saw her. She was nothing to any of them. Never had been. She scrubbed the toilet so hard water sloshed on the floor. Fuck it.

At the end they had acted like she was to blame for some heinous slight she had caused. Maybe she _had_ done something. In another life. Dreams and gossamer-thin fragments of memories told her there had been many. Maybe if she cast her mind back further than the last botched job, she would see them more clearly. Nothing in her wanted to do that, though. It might sway her from her purpose. No, she would keep the game going a little longer, now that she had the upper hand.

“Maybe I got mine, but you'll all get yours.”

She finished cleaning up and looked for an envelope on the dresser. Nothing. Rich people didn't tip worth shit.

She packed up her supplies and went on to the next room.

***

The curtain rises again. The roar of the crowd nearly knocks her off her feet. Her first night in the starring role of Princess Anastasia: The Musical has been a resounding success. This is what she has always wanted, who she has always wanted to be. The Nightingale of Broadway. She curtsies to the standing ovation. The production's mysterious patron standing in the wings catches her eye. Dressed in a silver Kaufmanfranco gown and glittering with diamonds, she is smiling and clapping. Her perfect red mouth silently forms the word “Bravo!” Nightingale smiles back, caught for a moment by the woman's charismatic presence, until the insistence of the audience pulls her into another curtsy. When she looks again, the woman in the wings is gone.

 

She is at the after party at Vaucluse, hobnobbing with the rich and famous, not feeling a bit out of place. She deserves to be here. She takes a sip of champagne, sees the woman in silver smiling at her from across the room. She beckons, and obediently Nightingale goes to her and is met with a warm embrace. The smell of her hair is intoxicating, and Nightingale is palpably disappointed when she eventually breaks away.

“Darling you were marvelous. But I'm sure you're tired of hearing that by now.”

“Not really, no.” She would never tire of it.

That bit of honesty scores a laugh and her heart soars at the sound.

For the rest of the evening, they only have eyes for each other. When they leave, they leave together. Nightingale is sure there will be talk tomorrow, maybe even a tabloid cover or two with pictures of the two of them getting into the back of a chauffeured black Audi; cheesy captions like “A Diamond for a Nightingale” will be splashed across the front pages.

Diamond's nails grazing the back of her hand nearly drive her mad. As soon as the car is parked in front of Nightingale's Chelsea brownstone they tumble out and practically run for the door. Once inside Diamond traps her against the door. Soft lips finally connect, hands tangle in hair, ruining expensive coifs. Somehow they make it up the stairs, shedding boots and stilettos, silver gown and tangerine two-piece as they go. It's all a blur until they fall into bed and Nightingale discovers that the taste of this mysterious woman is as intoxicating as her scent.

 

They are in the bath, up to their shoulders in sparkling, champagne-scented bubbles. Their voices and laughter echo off the marble walls and ceiling. They've only been together a few weeks but Diamond has virtually moved in. And for the first time, Nightingale is happy.

Diamond rolls on top of her, wet bodies intertwined beneath warm water, and gives her a kiss so fierce she fears she might drown in it. When Diamond finally lets her up for air she cocks her head, a mischievous look in her suddenly hard, blue eyes.

“Wanna know a secret?” Nightingale nods though she's not sure she actually does. Diamond leans in, says soft and low in her ear, “I know how you got the role of Anastasia. I know what you did to Nightingale.”

Nightingale startles and sits up, water sloshing. Her heart is a caged bird fluttering wildly in a trap.

Diamond laughs and settles back against the tub. “Don't worry, my love. I'll never tell.” She puts an arm around Nightingale's trembling shoulders, pulls her close and whispers, “I'll even let you in on one of my secrets.”

Her cupped hand rises out of the foam. As she lets the water flow through her fingers, droplets turn to diamonds that fall into the tub with little plops and splashes. Nightingale forgets her fear. She turns to look at Diamond, mouth agape.

“I thought you'd like that little trick,” Diamond's laugh is interrupted by Nightingale kissing her. Hard.

Diamond pulls away. “If you liked that, you're gonna love this. I'm bankrolling a new production and I have the perfect role for you in mind. Interested?”

“Maybe,” Nightingale says, settling back under the suds. “Tell me more.”

“Rich socialite with imposter complex turns art thief. But nothing is as it seems.”

“Okay, I'm intrigued. Also a little weirded out, but intrigued.”

“Excellent. I'll let the producers know. By the way, I've already invited them over for dinner tomorrow.”

“Cheeky devil!”

Diamond shrugged one smooth white shoulder. “I knew you'd say yes. The actual saying it was just a formality.” She lazily dips her hand into the water again and it comes out dripping diamonds. “I can't wait for you to meet them.”

 

Nightingale woke. Through the open bathroom door she could still see the arm of the rotting dead body – her rotting dead body – hanging out of the bathtub where she had left it. She rolled onto her back and watched the play of car headlights on the ceiling, trying not to feel the aching swell of longing in her chest.

***

“Right,” Studs said. The five of them were sitting around the penthouse dining table paying various amounts of attention. “Mouse gets the goods and stows them. Once we get clear and the guards and shit are busy dealing with the mess Receipts made, she... hey fuckhead, are you listening?”

Nightingale sat with her chin in her hands beaming at Receipts, who was filing her hot pink nails into sharp points. “Um, yeah,” Nightingale said dreamily. “Stow and go. Got it.”

“I'll meet you on the tenth floor, you hand it off to me,” Studs continued.

“Oh no you don't, sweety,” Diamond said. “I should get the goods. All of you can meet up with me at the pier as planned. I need a reason for the rest of you to show up.”

“Fuck that,” Receipts said, examining her handiwork.

“Yeah, no,” said Studs. “You'll have the passports and the money by then. That's collateral enough for us to show.”

Receipts set her nail file down and leaned over the table to give Nightingale a little conspiratorial pat on the arm. “You should give the goods to me, Mousey Mouse,” she crooned. “Don't you think so?”

“She can't give the thing to you. You're not even going to be there, dumbass,” Studs snapped.

Receipts narrowed her eyes at her perennial nemesis and slumped back in her chair. “You think I'm not reliable but I fucking am so. Give me the goods and I'll prove it.”

“You. Won't. Be. There.” Receipts opened her mouth to interrupt. Studs held up a hand. “Wait for the dumbass, dumbass.” Receipts' mouth snapped shut. Studs paused for peak dramatic effect. “Dumbass.”

“Looks like it's either you or me, Studs Muffin,” Domina said. “How ever shall we decide?”

“Latex oil wrestling?” Diamond laughed.

Domina paused, considering. “Interesting suggestion, but I'll pass... this time. What about the tried and true rock, paper, scissors?”

She motioned for a minion to get up and compete in her stead. The waify minion and Studs did the traditional three pumps and go but it was already a foregone conclusion. Everyone knew Studs always chose rock.

“Paper. Minion wins.” Domina clapped.

Studs muttered obscenities under her breath but it was decided. Nightingale watched it all, hiding her amusement under obsequious admiration.

“Y'all, this is so exciting!” Receipts beamed at her but the others rolled their eyes. “I'm just so happy to be a part of it!”

Like any of their scheming mattered. She had her own plans.

***

She is in the foyer of her Chelsea brownstone. There are voices and laughter and soft moans coming from the living room. A lot of voices. Tentatively, she creeps to the french doors leading into the room and peeks in.

The room has been upholstered in dozens of beautiful young women, barely clad in what appear to be strips of black latex. They are everywhere – lounging on the floor, draped across nearly every piece of furniture as well as each other. It takes a full minute for her eyes to adjust to the scene. A laugh from the corner of the room catches her attention – a young woman sipping Starbucks stares at her phone. Another woman looks disdainfully at the laughing one from her perch on the sofa arm.

The only familiar face is Diamond's. She is lounging on the divan with a severe looking woman in shiny black leather. The woman has her arm around Diamond and is nuzzling her neck.

Nightingale is a frozen deer; the headlights, the sight of her beloved with another.

Diamond finally notices her at the door.

“Come on in, my love,” she says, as if it is her house and not Nightingale's. “These are the friends I wanted you to meet.”

“Friends!” snorts the leather-clad one.

“Colleagues, then,” Diamond says, beckoning her to come closer. Nightingale's feet are leaden. She wants to run out but she can't move. Diamond gets up with an exasperated sigh, grabs her by the arm and pulls her into the room. She introduces her around. Studs. Receipts. Domina. They are strangers and yet seem vaguely familiar. Diamond doesn't bother acknowledging the bevy of other women in the room.

“And here's my little songbird. Don't you just love this one, 'mina?” She gives Nightingale a squeeze – too hard against her brittle body.

“We're famished,” Domina says, ignoring the question. “Honey, why don't you fix us something to eat before we get down to business? Jackie and Charlotte will help. They're a dream in the kitchen.”

Nightingale stands transfixed.

“That may have sounded like a request, but it really wasn't. Kitchen. Now.”

She claps her hands. Two of the young women spring up from the floor and grab Nightingale, dragging her through to the kitchen.

 

“Why do you always laugh like that?” Nightingale asks the one with the funky bangs.

The women she had been introduced to are sitting around her formal dining table. In front of her 'guests' there are empty dishes and full wine glasses. Her own plate remains untouched.

Studs snorts. “Oh, she always does that when she's...”

“Nervous,” Domina snaps.

“Yeah, nervous. That's what I was going to say, control freak.”

Domina's mouth moves into a precise little smirk.

Studs glares at her and then continues to elucidate her plan. The museum. The curator. The rare and priceless antique. The role of the rich socialite collector Nightingale is to play.

As she talks, Nightingale grows increasingly uneasy. She can't shake the feeling that everyone at this table is lying to her. What seemed at first an exciting adventure now takes on a darker reality, considering what she would have to do to take on that role. And Diamond's betrayal has left her raw and bleeding. It doesn't seem worth it now. She wants out.

Studs wraps up her speech.

“It's the perfect crime!” She smiles, triumphantly. The others seem unimpressed.

“Pretty sure you said that the last time,” Receipts says.

“Are you high? I've never said that. What the fuck have they been putting in that two pump mocha half caff no whip shit fuck crap whatever you drink?”

“It's a double half caff espresso with a shot of raspberry you cretin.”

Studs takes a step toward her and makes a threatening gesture with her fist.

“Um, excuse me?” Nightingale says. “I... I'd like to be excluded from this criminal endeavor.”

They all stare at her with expressionless faces, except for Receipts who smiles a vapid smile and laughs her annoying laugh.

“Don't worry, we won't let anything bad happen to you,” she says.

Nightingale looks to Diamond for some support, but there is nothing in her eyes. She is nothing in her eyes and she hates herself for not recognizing it before. What a fool she'd been.

“Oh honey, you're in it now,” Domina says “No take backs.”

She gets up and leaves the dining room. Gotta get out. Quickly she walks past Domina's minions still strewn about the living room, headed towards the front door. The brass knob is cold in her hand. She can't open it. She tugs and tugs, opening and closing the locks, but it won't budge.

No take backs.

Something in her breaks. She stumbles up the stairs to her bedroom. Door slams, heart pounds. She paces, the muffled sounds of laughter downstairs and the after-dinner orgy reach her, until finally she crawls into bed and stuffs the plush duvet over her ears.

 

Nightingale woke and shoved nerdy girl's My Little Pony duvet off her head. The rotting corpse in the bathtub was gone.

“It's about time!” she said to the dark and empty room.

***

The elevator doors opened.

“Ok, it's show time.”

Studs pulled the mask down over her face. The others followed suit, then trailed after her out of the elevator bank and into the hotel lobby. They would have looked ridiculous on any other day, but with the anime convention being held alongside the art expo nobody really gave four women in cat masks carrying baseball bats a second look. Nightingale thought they looked more Spice Girls than Sailor Moon, but she hadn't been in charge of the disguises and – shocker! – nobody had asked her opinion.

Domina's horde of barely-clad women filing in through the front doors right on cue provided the first distraction. The quartet made their way quickly across the now very crowded lobby. As they reached the far stairway leading to the convention center there was a loud squeal punctuated by a deafening crash. Nightingale jumped and turned around. The entire glass front of the building lay in a heap of twisted metal and broken glass.

Hotel patrons and convention-goers slowly gathered around the smoking wreck of a gold Bugatti wrapped around the central pillar of the lobby's marble fountain. The driver side door opened and out stumbled Receipts, faux leopard coat hanging slightly down one shoulder, hair and sunglasses perfectly in place. Half a dozen security guards pushed through the crowd. Domina's minions swarmed them, occupying them with gropes and breathy moans and plaintive cries of, “Please can you help me?” Several bystanders approached Receipts to see if she was hurt. She laughed and brushed them off, picking her way over the glass and rubble and into the street.

“Come on, lets get out of here,” Domina said.

They started down the stairs. Another deafening sound rocked the lobby – this time an explosion. Nightingale could feel the impact wave hit her in the back of the chest and she gasped. The high pitched sound of the fire alarm mixed with the screams of the hotel patrons and the laughter of Domina's minions as they frolicked in the rain coming from the sprinklers.

“Boom boom,” laughed Studs.

They passed more guards mixed in with a throng of anime cosplayers trying to get out before something else blew up. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, the convention center was a ghost town.

Art expo signs pointed them to Conference Hall C. They flung open the doors and ran down the empty center aisle lined with booths filled with mediocre contemporary art. There was another, smaller room set apart from the main hall by red velvet ropes. This was where they kept the stuff that was actually worth something: shelves full of antique pottery and art glass, cabinets of rare curios and artifacts, three walls hung with prints and paintings.

“What is all this garbage?” said Studs, looking around.

Domina patted her shoulder indulgently. “You never did have any taste, dear.”

At the far end of the room, strategically lit in a glass case and cordoned off with more red velvet rope, was their quarry. Studs pointed with her bat and all four of them walked over and gathered around it.

The statue, such as it was, looked like a few blobby lumps of clay with some rudimentary snakes coiled around them. Nightingale took one look at it and burst out laughing. Somehow, some way, it actually looked like the piece of crap phonies she'd made in nerdy girl's studio. The others turned to look at her.

“It's not very artful,” she said. “I mean, like, I could have made that.”

“Shut up, Mouse,” Studs growled.

Domina shrugged. “Well, it is hideous. I'll giver her that.”

“Excuse me, ladies?” A lone security guard had found them on his final rounds through the hall.

“Diamond my love, would you please take care of that?” Domina said without turning around.

Nightingale was grateful for the mask covering the twisted rage on her face. My fucking love my fucking ass. It was all she could do to keep herself from screaming.

“We're evacuating the first floor and conference center,” the guard continued. “I'm going to have to ask you to...”

The sight of Diamond's gold pistol pointed at his head cut him off.

Studs motioned for them all to move back and then smashed the heavy glass case with her bat.

“It's not real,” Domina said as Studs drew the statue out triumphantly from the shattered wreckage.

“What? Of course it is!”

“No alarm.”

“Maybe it's a silent alarm,” Diamond said, leaning in to check the guards name tag. “Is it a silent alarm, Chuck?”

The guard shook his head.

“You wouldn't lie to me now, would you, Chuck?”

“No, ma'am!” his voice quavered.

“Well isn't that just fucking grand!” Studs tossed the statue to the ground. She took aim at a giant earthenware jug with her bat, sending a hail of thick pottery shards in all directions.

“Where. The. Fuck. Is. The. Real. One?” Each word was punctuated by her smashing something else. She wrapped up her tantrum by swiping her bat over an entire display shelf with a final, wordless bellow of frustration.

Diamond pressed the point of a red fingernail nail under the guard's chin and turned his face towards her. “Chuck darling, where is the real statue?”

“In the... in the vault I guess.”

“What fucking vault?” Studs bounded over and wound up as if she were about to use the guard's head for batting practice.

“The vault! The hotel vault!” he cried. “I don't know. You're making me nervous.”

“You know where that is?” Studs said, turning to Nightingale.

“Oh yeah, sure!” she answered brightly.

Studs lowered her bat and knocked the guard out with a backhand to the head.

“Let's go,” she said. “Mouse leads.”

***  
They ran back up to the lobby, empty now but for the bombed out shell of the car and the wreckage Receipts had left behind. They jumped the abandoned concierge desk (with various levels of grace) and headed through the Staff Only door. It lead into a long hallway with administrative offices on either side. Nightingale pointed to the heavy reinforced door at the end of the hallway. She swiped her fob on the keypad to the right of the door and they all filed into the ante chamber of the vault room – also empty.

There was a workstation normally containing two guards and outfitted with a dozen closed-circuit surveillance camera monitors. Diamond carelessly tossed her gun onto the desk and slid into one of the chairs to keep an eye on the camera feeds.

Nightingale hung back while Studs and Domina continued on into the vault room. Diamond pointedly ignored her.

There was a noise of rending metal and heavy crash as Studs yanked the vault door off the hinges and tossed it away like it was made of balsa wood. More clatter as the two searched through strong boxes for the goods, then a triumphant “Aha!” From Studs.

Domina stepped out of the vault room carrying the statue.

“Well, that was easy,” she said.

“Too easy,” Studs said, joining her.

“Really? You're going to complain about success? You are such a drag. Hag,” Domina said.

Diamond laughed and Studs rounded on her.

“Shut up, Mouse!”

“I'm Diamond,” she said, voice sullen.

Nightingale couldn't help but laugh at her former lover's offense at being confused with little old her. Studs turned menacingly towards her but Nightingale only laughed harder.

“I'm sorry,” she gasped through her giggles. “I just can't take you seriously in that mask. You're a cat! We're cat burglars! Ha! I just got that.”

“Shut up, Mouse!” all three snapped.

Domina shoved the statue at Nightingale so hard she stumbled back until her butt hit the desk next to Diamond, who let out a contemptuous sound as she moved to avoid her.

“You know the plan,” Domina said. “Don't fuck it up.”

Nightingale saluted her, then pulled a pillowcase from her yellow purse and stuffed the statue in it. They left the vault room and hopped back over the concierge desk. Each hurried away and disappeared in a different direction.

***  
Nightingale pulled off her cat mask and ran-walked to the elevator, then to the third floor linen room. First, a quick costume change from her cat burglar clothes into the uniform she'd stashed there. Next, props. She searched the discarded pile of yellow clothes for the golden pistol she'd snagged when she bumped against the desk in the vault room. This she slipped into her uniform pocket. She stuffed the pillowcase containing the stolen relic into a housekeeping cart. After rummaging through a dirty laundry bin she pulled out two more pillowcases, sagging heavy at the bottom, and stuffed them into the cart as well.

She stood for a minute, trying to collect herself. She could do this. At least so far it was working. They believed her wide-eyed naivete act. They even seemed to trust her – with the exception of Diamond – in a you're-too-stupid-and-nice-to-fuck-us-over kind of way. Jokes on them. That last botched job had been one long con and she had been the lone mark. Now there were four.

She smoothed the front of her uniform, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then she grabbed her cart and wheeled it out into the hallway and headed up to the tenth floor. She pushed the cart at a leisurely pace. Nothing to see here, folk, just doin' my job. When Studs appeared from around the corner she didn't acknowledge her. They passed each other, not making eye contact. She handed off one of the heavy pillow cases from her cart and kept moving.

Down to the seventh floor and a hand-off to one of Domina's minions. Always a master delegator, Domina was. Back in the elevator, she used her key fob to get her up to the penthouse floor. It took her a moment to compose herself and run through what she was going to say.

Tentatively, she knocked at the door. Diamond opened it and gave her a look dripping with as much contempt as she was with diamonds. She grabbed the bag out of Nightingale's hand without a word and slammed the door in her face.

Nightingale stood there with her prepared speech still stuck in her mouth. Well, fuck her, then. Fuck all of them. The stage was set. The plan was in motion. All she had to do now was the follow-through.

***

Running. They are running down a dark and unfamiliar city street, slick with recent rain. Nightingale and Studs and Receipts. The bright flashing lights and the whoop of sirens cut the night as the police round the corner, screeching to a halt in front of them. They duck behind a parked delivery truck.

“On the count of three, book it to that alley,” Studs says with a flick of her thumb indicating behind and to the left of them.

“One...”

Half a dozen cops jump out of their cruisers, shouting.

“Two...”

She doesn't bother with three. She grabs the truck and flips it over, blocking the path of the advancing cops. Nightingale is too scared to be surprised by her companions strength. Actually, nothing would surprise her anymore. Studs disappears down the alley, not waiting for them, not looking back. Nightingale tries to keep up. Where is Receipts? The idiot has inexplicably stopped, lingering at the mouth of the alleyway.

“Come on!” Nightingale calls.

Receipts reaches into her Gucci bag and pulls something out. Three loud reports sound as she shoots towards the police that are regrouping. She laughs and tosses the gun, clattering on the pavement, before finally joining up with Nightingale.

They run.

Bang.

The cops fire on them.

Bang.

A bullet hits Receipts in the shoulder and bounces off. She jolts with the impact but keeps running.

Bang.

A bullet hits Nightingale's chest, piercing it back to front. She reels and falls. Receipts is still laughing as the police throw her down and cuff her.

 

She is on her back, moving quickly. The fluorescent lights and faces hovering above her are a blur. Silence. Then a white ceiling, an unfamiliar bed. The unsteady beeping of a monitor and the whoosh of the ventilator tell her she is still alive. Barely.

Darkness. The sound of laughter pulls her back. She opens her eyes to a familiar but unwelcome face.

“Shit, you look terrible,” Studs tells her, as if she couldn't guess. “I would have brought you some flowers but I'm not the flower bringing type.”

She plops down on the standard hospital room chair and looks around.

“Sorry I had to leave you but, well, I don't really care about you. In fact, I kind of hate you. Nothing personal. But I planned the perfect crime, it was foolproof. You had one job and your chicken shit ass couldn't go through with it.”

She gets up, studies the various machinery attached to Nightingale.

“At least Receipts got off 'cause she told them the gun was yours. Everyone believes her stupid lies – quite a gift she's got there, don't you think?”

Studs draws back, out of sight.

“Time to go now. Bye bye, birdie.” She barks a sharp laugh. “See what I did there? 'Cause you're an actress and your name is Nightingale. Funny, huh?” There's a loud smashing sound, an alarm. Nightingale barely hears them, too preoccupied with her sudden lack of oxygen.

 

Nightingale woke, thrashing at the pillow that had somehow come to cover her face. She flopped back on the bed, hearing nothing over the pounding of her heart in her ears. Tomorrow was the big day. She needed to get some sleep, god damn it. Fuck these damn dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

ACT 3: THE BIG DAY

Studs sat in the back room of her biker bar, leather boots propped on the desk next to the ugly monstrosity they had stolen yesterday. So this was the thing that was so damn important to the snake lady? Huh. Whatever. The failed first attempt at snagging it had given her cover to off that throat warbling drama queen, so it wasn't a complete bust. She'd gotten what she wanted; now it was time to hold up her end of the bargain. So she should have felt satisfied, right? Not this nagging unfinished business feeling.

Maybe it was the dreams. How many friggin' ways were there to die? At least as many as there were days in a year. She knew that much, at least.

There was a commotion outside. The door opened and a soft brunette with a hard look popped her head in.

“What?”

“Uh, boss? There's a chick here says she's a friend of y...”

That annoying nerdy girl with her fresh-faced enthusiasm pushed past her before she could finish the sentence.

“Hi!” she said brightly and waved.

Studs motioned for the brunette to close the door.

Mouse looked around with wide eyes at all the biker memorabilia decorating the dingy office. “Oh wow! Look at all this cool stuff. Is it all yours?

“What the fuck are you doing here, Mouse?”

“Oh yeah, right.” Her face suddenly got serious. “Well, I... I'm afraid I've got some bad news.”

“Spit it out.”

“You know that thing we stole. Oh!” she brightened as she saw it on the desk. “Yeah, that thing right there? So, it's a fake.”

Studs took her feet off the desk and sat up.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean, it's probably a fake.” Mouse started to get distracted again, wandering around looking at crap as if she were in the fucking Louvre or something. “Receipts told me. I mean, I wasn't supposed to go to the club but I was getting bored? And she and I like the same kinda music? So...”

“Mouse, you better cut the shit and focus right now. What did she say?”

Mouse continued her tour of the office, stopping to admire some framed Harley Davidson prints behind the desk. Undeterred, she prattled on about club music and how she was just starting to appreciate it because before she had been such a teeny bopper fan but she was older now and tastes change, right? That's a normal thing, right?

Studs put her head in her hands.

“I swear to god if you don't...”

“Oh, right. The statue thingy. So, I go to the club and Receipts is all like, 'WTF? What are you doing here?'” Mouse giggled. “Kinda like you just did. Anyways, she was talking about how you think you're so hot, right? And she was all, 'That stupid bitch thinks she's so hot, and her plan was so great. Like, she doesn't even realize I paid someone to switch the fugly statue out and now she's got a fake.' Can you believe it?”

Studs banged a fist on the desk, splintering the wood. “She is so dead. So fucking dead.”

“Yeah, she will be, too,” Mouse's voice behind her had changed. Less candy fluff, more cold steel. “Guess your 'perfect crime' wasn't so perfect after all.”

Studs wheeled around. A flash of gold, a deafening bang, then...

Dark, dark.

***  
The gun's report brought half a dozen surly biker chicks bursting in as Nightingale stooped over the body behind the desk. When she stood she was outfitted in black leather from top to tail. She looked down at the nerdy girl's lifeless form, perfect little bullet hole piercing the center of the forehead.

“Take care of that,” she said gruffly, stepping over the body and brushing past the two standing nearest the door. Her heart raced as she walked the gauntlet through the bar full of beautiful leather-clad biker chicks who were all as ornery as Studs had been. But they just moved out of her way, some smiling in an obsequious notice-me-senpai kind of way.

Once outside she stopped. The cold air on her face brought her back from the edginess of fear and she took a deep breath, regrouped.

One down. If she wasn't careful, she could get used to this vendetta stuff. Maybe she was already an old hand at it.

She found Studs' bike and warily mounted it, taking off with a jerky wobble which she hoped none of the other biker babes saw. Either she started to get the hang of it or the bike started driving itself like it knew where to go. She'd need to make a pit stop first, though.

***

The nightclub was empty and dark, the only light coming from the DJ booth. Receipts sat crookedly in a chair at the console, headphones on, music cranked, trying to drown out – what? The memory of bad dreams? It wasn't working. Just death and death and death – all hers – parading around her head. She snatched up her phone from the console and started flipping through her video receipts. Why were there so many scenes she didn't remember filming? Or maybe she did in a misty sort of way, but when she tried to bring the memories into clearer focus she got queasy and stopped.

She took a slug of what was supposed to be her usual half caff double espresso. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. Americano. Tim the worthless barrista was always getting it wrong. Why she kept going there was a mystery.

There was a noise in the dark at the front of the club. She startled and ripped off her headphones.

“Who's there?”

“It's just me, dumbass. Here.” Studs appeared out of the shadows beyond the dance floor, Starbucks cup in her hand. Even though she hated this one the most, her shoulders untangled slightly in relief.

“You...you brought me Starbucks?”

“Yeah.” Studs plopped it down on the console in front of her.

“You. Brought _me_. Starbucks.” She picked up the cup before it spilled all over her expensive electronics. The beast had no respect for other people's things.

“Yeah bitch, what the fuck? Don't you know a kind gesture when you see it? Just drink it and shut up. I have to tell you something.”

Yup. She was definitely the worst.

“Kind gesture? That's a first,” Receipts snorted.

“Just shut up and drink it.”

Receipts took a tentative sip. “Ugh! They put an amaretto shot in this?”

“I don't fucking know. I just described your stupid hair to the barrista and told him to give me your usual.”

Fucking Tim.

She took another sip. It wasn't bad just...slightly off somehow. Or maybe what was off was the way Studs was looking at her. Her usual disdain was there but there was something more. Whatever. She shrugged it off and took another sip.

“So what's so important? We're supposed to hole up on our own until Domina gives the all clear.”

“Yeah, but the plan's changed. That little mousey chick double-crossed us. Took off with the statue.”

Receipts almost choked and gave a little spluttering cough. “What the actual fuck? I'm gonna kill that little...”

“Too late.”

Receipts stopped and looked at her leather-studded nemesis. The something more in Studs' eyes had hardened into something dark, something murderous.

“Well, good. You did us all a favor I guess. You're the best.” She gave a little nervous laugh and stood up slowly.

“You're such a fucking liar,” Studs growled, advancing slowly towards the booth.

There was nothing even super-strong Studs could do to physically harm her, and yet instinctively she backed away.

“Yeah well, that's why I'm in the gang, right? I'm useful.”

“Not really, no.”

“Come on...” Her heart raced faster than that time she drank four double espressos in the space of an hour. It's why she started going half caff.

Studs kept advancing. “You got away with it last time, but your lies won't save you now.”

“Studs, amiga, please...” Her hands were starting to shake and she dropped the coffee.

“You said the gun was mine.”

Running, alley, bang bang she's dead. Holy shit, Nightingale! But how?

Dizzy now, so dizzy, gasping for breath. She crumpled to her knees, retching. Blurrily she could see Nightingale smiling above her as she hit the floor.

She took her death like she took her coffee.

Dark, dark.

***

Two down, two to go.

Nightingale had hoped the cyanide would take a little longer – she wanted the reveal to last and last – but she had to take what she could get. There were only so many ways to kill someone who was unbreakable.

Stooping, she picked up the oversized sunglasses where they had fallen to the ground, and slid them on. She took one last coldly satisfied look at Studs' cherry-red face and then turned and left. The best thing about all this was that it was kinda like getting to see each one of them die twice.

***  
Domina stood on the metal catwalk looking down at the poist-coital orgy pile of bodies below her with a precise mixture of pride of ownership and disdain. They were in her converted industrial warehouse; the kind of place you would expect a dominatrix with an army of lithe young women under her control to be. Sure, she was a stereotype of the most obvious order, but so what? Having her every whim catered to was simply divine. Most of the time.

Her gaze softened until the sleeping bodies below her became just a vague and blurry hill of pink and brown flesh. All of her little minions were fast asleep. Not her, though. She gave a breathy, annoyed sigh and turned around, leaning against the thin, metal railing of the catwalk.

The dreams were coming fast and furious now. Every time she closed her eyes for more than a minute the macabre dance of death would play out in an unending number of acts. It was unnerving (not that she would ever admit it). Even that didn't entirely explain her present sense of unease. Something was coming. She looked down at the stolen statue at her feet. Maybe this time would be different.

The bang of a metal door made her jump. She quickly composed herself and whirled around.

“Who's there? Show yourself!”

Receipts appeared out of the darkness.

“Yes, ma'am!” she called and laughed.

“Jesus Christ, woman! What are you doing here?”

“No no, don't come down! I'll come up,” Receipts said. “Gotta tell ya something. It's super important. For your eyes only. Ears I mean, duh.”

Receipts bounded up the metal staircase and Domina greeted her with arms crossed and eyes hard.

“What is so important that you would jeopardize the plan?”

“The plan's already FUBAR. That little mouse turd double-crossed us!”

Domina narrowed her eyes. “Are you kidding?”

“I don't know. Am I laughing?” She slid her sunglasses down her nose and peered over the rims. “She handed off the fake. I worked it all out. Well, technically me and Studs, but whatever. I'm not actually stupid, ya know.”

“Yes you are.”

“Well fuck you, too.”

As Receipts spun a rambling, often incoherent tale, Domina turned and grasped the railing, looking down on her minions again. She could mobilize them to help Studs in the search for the mousey maid. Another fucking mess she would have to clean up. Maybe this was the bad news she had been waiting for.

She heard the rattle of a chain behind her. Cold metal wrapped around her neck and she was pulled backwards, almost off her feet. Receipts hooked one end of the chain to Domina's collar and hoisted the other end, lifting her up until her toes barely grazed the ground. She kicked up, trying to find purchase on the railing, gloved fingers uselessly clawing at the chain links. Through her panic she could just dimly make out the words being spoken in her ear.

“You took what was mine. Now I'm taking what's yours.”

Nightingale! It was the last thing she thought. The last thing she felt was the shove that sent her over the railing. The last she saw was...

Dark, dark.

***

That was a bit easier than expected. Domina was always surrounded by her minions who would protect her to the death. She had wondered how she would get them away. If she'd tried something like pulling the fire alarm (or setting an actual fire) they wouldn't move to save themselves even from a raging inferno if Miss Bossypants didn't give the okay. The murder gods were smiling on her, though. Domina had done her the service of separating herself. Bing bang boom, over the edge. Done.

Nightingale descended the metal steps, riding crop in hand. She expected to start barking orders as soon as she hit the ground, but instead her steps slowed and she stopped. The scene before her resembled a Red Cross post-catastrophe fundraising montage after the bombs dropped or the earthquake leveled ten city blocks. Or that REM _Everybody Hurts_ video.

Most of Domina's minions remained huddled in their pile, clinging to each other. Others wandered about as if dazed, sometimes collapsing on the floor, shaking and sobbing. Some just booked it towards the door. One looked up and pointed with shaking finger at the body swinging by the chain around its neck and screamed.

Nightingale hadn't considered this.

These women had been slaves under the influence of some fearsome spell. With the real Domina dead, they were free. She had known that and yet she hadn't. All of her annoyance and disdain for their fawning and obsequious behavior fell away. A smidgen of compassion welled up in her. What would become of them now? Should she try to help?

A few of the women who had been consoling others stood up when they saw her, fists clenched and glaring. So much for helping. She might have to fight her way out of here after all.

She dialed up her Domina swagger, tapping the crop in the palm of her hand. She brushed past the angry ones, maintaining her gaze at an appropriately haughty distance. Suddenly she stopped and whirled around.

“I'm done with you. You can go now.”

She turned on her heel and walked towards the door. Behind her a chorus of angry shouts and sobbing rose up.

“What the fuck did you do to us?”

“Please don't leave us Mistress! Please!”

She walked faster.

The sobbing ones tried to follow her but the angry ones grabbed and held onto them, preventing them from going after her, changing her mind, making her stay. That gave her a window of opportunity to get the hell out the door and run to the bike.

Another one down, but this time there was collateral damage. She kicked the starter and revved the engine, peeling out just as a dozen former minions burst through the door behind her.

***

Where was it?

Diamond paced the bedroom in the Chelsea brownstone, red Louboutins sinking into the plush white carpet. In spite of the seeming success of the heist, she was on edge. The loss of her gold pistol gave her the reason she needed to explain the tightening in her chest and the tremor in her hand. Somewhere deep down, she knew that wasn't it, though. Maybe it was the dreams of a million different ways to die – drowning, burning, falling, stabbing – a different one every night.

Or maybe it was the haunted memory of the betrayal on Nightingale's face the last time she saw her in this house.

Diamond walked over to the bed and grabbed her Gucci bag to search through it again, this time dumping the contents out and rifling through them. Where was the damn gun? If that klepto Receipts swiped it again...

There was a sharp rat-tat-tat on the door. Diamond startled and whirled around to see Domina, crop in hand, staring at her.

“Oh girl, you scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here? And how did you get in?”

“You left the door open, silly,” Domina said. “You really should be more careful. Studs would tan your hide for your 'lapse in OPSEC'.” She laughed. Her laughter always sounded so staged and controlled. Diamond wondered if the woman ever really saw humor in anything.

“As to why I'm here...little Mouse has gone rogue and scurried away with our goods.”

“Oh my god!” Her hand flew up, touching the diamond and platinum strands at her throat. Maybe that was why she was uneasy. Anxiety quickly turned to anger at yet another job gone wrong. She knew that girl was trouble when she walked in.

“That little twerp. What do we do?”

“Don't worry. Studs is going after her.”

Poor thing was done for, then. Studs would crush her skull like a raw egg.

“What the hell does she think she's doing? I have all the money and the passports. She can't have gone far.”

Domina sat down in an overstuffed white chair, legs crossed, tapping the instep of her boot with the riding crop.

“Yes, I think you're right. She's probably still close by. Very.”

Diamond went back to her rummaging. Suddenly Domina was up and walking towards the bathroom.

“Mind if I take a powder, darling?”

Diamond waved a hand. Then she called after her, “I don't suppose you've seen my gold piece around anywhere?”

Domina called back, “You probably left it in the vault room.”

Fucking hell. She remembered setting it down now. It couldn't have been Receipts who snagged it.

She stopped rummaging and flopped down in the chair Domina had vacated. The house was quiet. The uneasy feeling grew. She looked around at the empty room, drumming her red fingernails on the chair's arm, making muted little 'puff puff puff' sounds. Suddenly she stopped. That was it! The room was empty but for her, bereft of the minions that always accompanied Domina. She opened her mouth intending to shout “Hey, where the hell are your girls?” but before she could the bathroom door swung open.

Her mouth opened wider in surprise. She got up slowly from the chair, heart pounding. Domina had gone into the bathroom, but it was Nightingale who came out. Nightingale, in her tangerine two-piece and boots. The one she'd been wearing the night they met at the after party.

“You,” she said, pointing with finger shaking, “you shouldn't be here. You're dead.”

Nightingale smiled at the Captain Obvious observation. That smile made her look so beautiful. And so deadly. Diamond knew she had to get out of there. She started inching towards the bedroom door. Nightingale's glare trained on her said there would be no talking her way out of this. Time to make a break for it.

She lunged for the door but Nightingale caught her by the arm and jerked her back. She grabbed hold of the jeweled choker around Diamond's neck and wrenched it tight in her fist. Diamond clawed feebly at her throat. Strangulation. This was a new one. Nightingale held firm, pulling her backwards. Diamond flailed and they both fell to the floor. The bright sun filling the room contracted to a single, faceted point of light before all went...

Dark, dark.

***

She'd saved the worst for last.

Nightingale had entered the house – her house – and found Diamond in the bedroom. The ruse worked well enough. She told Diamond the lies and she'd swallowed them whole, since it was Domina telling them. These two were as close as any two Taylors could be.

“She can't have gone far.”

Nightingale walked over to the overstuffed chair and sat down, legs crossed. All of her movements were prim and precise.

“Yes, I think you're right. She's probably still close by. Very.”

Suddenly she realized the glaring flaw in her otherwise perfect plan: she was minionless. Diamond wasn't the stupid one. She'd notice soon enough. Nightingale got up with slightly less precision. Things would have to go down a bit more quickly now.

“Mind if I take a powder, darling?”

Diamond gave a wave of her hand to assent and continued rifling through her bags.

She walked into the cavernous marble bathroom, stopped and looked at her severe reflection in the mirror. Slowly, she let her hair down and fluffed it, then wiped off some makeup to tone it down. There, that was better. She was beginning to look like her old self again.

She passed through the doorway of the massive walk in closet to search for something a little more comfortable than the binding leather. A very specific something. A bright flash of orange caught her eye and she grabbed the hanger, pulled out a satin tangerine two-piece. She freed herself from the leather garb and changed, completing the outfit with matching tangerine boots.

The look on Diamond's face when she came out had been priceless. Eyes wide with recognition, perfect Victory Red mouth in a comically perfect Oh. Nightingale nearly laughed out loud. But this was serious business.

This one was gonna be hands-on. Had to be. She didn't even have to say anything. Diamond made a lunge towards the door a lot faster than she'd expected. She only just grabbed her arm, sharp nails raking down the pale skin, holding fast at the wrist, jerking her back, grabbing the diamond choker and twisting.

They fell backwards to the floor. Most of Diamond's weight hit her and just about knocked the wind out of her but she held on. She wrapped her legs around Diamond and clung on tight, like a wrestler in the ring. The Fabulous Moolah was going down for the count tonight. She held the love of her life against her body until she stopped struggling and all was still and quiet. A wave of grief swept over her.

How stupid was that?

She loosened her grip and rolled the limp, dead body off her. She stood, smoothing her now silver dress out and swiped a tear from her cheek, the string of diamonds on her wrist sparkling in the sun coming through the bedroom windows.

Now to find the stash. After a brief search, she found a go bag stuffed under the bed. She grabbed it and dumped everything out in a rain of banded cash, passports, and the statue she had handed off to Diamond. The real one.

She picked it up, weighing it heavily in her hand. Was it worth it? Would this change anything? Or was it all for nothing? Was this McGuffin the true McGuffin? Or was she still only another character in somebody else's melodrama?

Whatever. She was committed to seeing this show through, however it played out.

She grabbed one of the passports and opened it.

“Taylor Phoenix. Seems like the obvious choice.” Whoever was pulling the strings here certainly thought they had a sense of humor. Whatever. She was gonna cut those strings or die trying. She stuffed the money and her passport back into the bag and shouldered it.

A jangly ringtone and buzzing noise went off. Nightingale found Diamond's phone among the Gucci detritus and swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

Some fencer, forger, banker, lawyer asking for Taylor Diamond.

“I'm sorry, the old Taylor can't come to the phone right now. Why?” she paused, “Oh, because she's dead.”

She dropped the phone with a laugh. Somehow she knew that call would get back to Serpentine. She would be expecting her prize, but Nightingale had no intention of holding up her end of the bargain now.

“The game has changed, bitch. Come and get me.”

She stepped over her own dead body crumpled on the floor in its tangerine outfit, and left.


	4. Chapter 4

EPILOGUE: ANOTHER DAMN REMAKE

Serpentine sat upon her throne in the sanctuary of the ancient cathedral, waiting. No tea this time – whiskey neat. Old as dirt and smooth as silk, just like her. Things hadn't quite gone according to plan, but she wasn't bothered. Not much, anyway. It was something new to make the tedium of this place a teensy bit more interesting at any rate.

Okay, maybe she was a little bothered.

She gestured to one of her darlings and it slithered off, belly scales rasping against the stone floor. It returning quickly with an old parchment that trailed out endlessly behind it into the dark depths of the church. The snake held it up to her and she looked at the most recent names, blood red, crossed off. All but one.

Nightingale.

The sigh she let out was sharp with irritation. She hated to leave things unfinished. And they were always unfinished. Once the last name was crossed off, five more always appeared.

The demon that slept coiled in the bowels of this church had such a twisted sense of humor.

She took a swig of whiskey, then sat back in her throne, crossed her legs, drummed the points of her sharp, gold nails upon the arm. Waiting. Always waiting.

The doors at the far end of the nave creaked open. A shambling, undead woman lurched down the aisle and stopped in front of her, swaying. Its glasses sat cockeyed half-way down what was left of its nose, one lens missing. The words scrawled in fabric pen ink on its faded, dirty T-shirt could no longer be read.

Serpentine dropped the whiskey glass. It missed the waiting tray held by one of her attendants and was only saved from smashing on the rune-carved stones by a quickly coiled tail. She leaned forward and her mouth twisted into a crooked little smile.

“Honey, have I got a deal for you!”

END


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